


Bar Buddies

by Delirious21



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Bottom Megatron, Cute, Docking, Fingering, First Time, Lonely Swerve, M/M, Megatron skulking at the bar, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Valve Fingering (Transformers), kindof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delirious21/pseuds/Delirious21
Summary: When the bar closes, Swerve is left alone with Megatron. He doesn't hate the company, but who knows where it will lead. Why, exactly, is this handsome, hulking mech stooped over his bar and /listening/ to him?
Relationships: Swerve/Megatron
Comments: 21
Kudos: 120





	1. Establishing Connections

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to clarify, in defense of this ship, that I’m back and forth on whether or not it’s a crackship. For now, and for the purpose of this piece, I will say that I think Swerve, who talks but no one listens to, and Megatron who wants to be talked to but is avoided, would work well together. Plus, I stand by underappreciated characters getting to enjoy themselves and be accepted in a healthy environment. In this case, Megatron is that safe space. 
> 
> SFW for this chapter. Next will be pure smut ;)

Just a customer. He was just a customer, an ex-warlord, a co-captain, a mass murderer, and a poet. . . Swerve struggled to wrench his gaze away from Megatron. The hulking silver mech had just passed Ten and was making his way towards the overcrowded bar, alone. Whirl clacked his claws impatiently, still waiting on his drink, and Swerve busied himself with mixing it. But, in the back of his mind, Megatron lingered. Maybe it was his heat coming on, maybe it was the insufferable loneliness that crushed him. Or not crushed, but inhibited. 

Drink finished, he passed it off to Whirl and grinned. “Here yuh go,” he said. “Try not to spill this one.” 

Whirl squinted, gave a dry bark of a laugh, then disappeared into the crowd. They both knew he threw the last drink at Cyclonus, and this one would probably end up on the floor too. At least Ten knew how to use the mop. If Swerve had to stop to clean up every mess, no one would ever get their drinks. 

Speaking of which. . . Swerve lost himself in the whirlwind of customers and their orders and, for a while, he didn’t notice Megatron taking a seat at the bar. When he did, it was because the mech beckoned him over to order. 

No niceties, just, “The usual.”

Right. Aged engex with three drops of magnesium. Swerve could appreciate the need for a burn in his drink, and he never commented on the old frame’s tastes. While he worked, he chatted up a half-listening, half-drunk Trailbreaker. 

“You know,” he said, “I always thought that energy thing was cool. Maybe you could show it to me sometime.” The other mech took a swig of his drink, muttered something like a non-committal “sure” and staggered off into the crowd. “Or not, that’s cool too. Don’t worry ‘bout your tab!”

Hoist filled the empty seat while Swerve turned to give Megatron his drink. He was the one mech he didn’t talk to. It was somewhat of a mutual understanding. They were both alone; surrounded by mechs, but alone. One by choice, or in lieu of his choices, the other because no one had time for a rambling metallurgist-turned-bartender. Maybe it was a good thing, that brief quiet they shared, or maybe it was just another lapse in a faulty timeline, who fucking knew. When Megatron first decided to visit the bar, the other patrons scrambled for the exit and parted like the red sea. Now, no one paid him any attention, unless they needed something from him. Swerve, because of that, convinced himself that he understood the somber glaze to Megatron’s optics as he stared into his glass or examined the joints of his digits. 

Four shots were whipped up and sent off to Rodimus’ table, and Swerve kept face while he worked, knowing damn well that in a couple of hours the bar would be empty and he’d be alone. Again. He glanced at Megatron and wondered if he was just alone, or if he was lonely too. All he had was Ravage, and Swerve doubted the mechanimal was much for companionship. But, hey, maybe Megatron didn’t want that. Maybe he wanted to stew in his isolation and forget the rest of the world while he waited to rust. 

Either way, Swerve had a bar to tend to. 

As closing rolled around, more and more mechs filtered out. Swerve let Bluestreak leave early too. It was just one of those nights when he wanted to be alone and clean. Well, he didn’t really want to be alone, but no one wanted to be with him and alone sounded better than lonely or rejected. The music playing was a slow organic composition, the bass sweet and rumbling, the symbols giving the acoustics that extra umph. 

Swerve pretended to not notice the handful of mechs left. He wouldn’t serve any more drinks, but he loitered behind the bar instead of getting to work cleaning what Ten missed. Megatron, the last mech at the bar, swirled what little engex remained of his drink. He was only on the second glass. Swerve started to wipe down the same clean glasses he’d polished earlier, pretending like he didn’t want Megatron to stay there all night. 

Ten, right on time, started escorting the stragglers out. No one put up much of a fight, but when Ten approached the bar, Swerve waved him away. He tried to be discrete about it, but of course Megatron noticed. 

He tipped his glass towards Swerve when Ten lumbered away and the bar doors finally closed. “Thank you,” he said. 

Swerve hoped his visor wasn’t giving away his nerves. They didn’t talk. That was part of the deal, the unspoken understanding. He reset his vocalizer and tried on a smile, the same exhaustingly fake kind he wore all day. “Any time,” he finally said. “But you still have to pay. I have a bar to run.” It was odd, but he couldn’t find the strength to keep up his smile. He let it fade. 

“You run your bar well,” Megatron said. He sipped the last of his drink. 

Swerve glanced out over said bar, at the tipped tables and the broken glasses, the spilled engex and the trampled mini-umbrellas. Tailgate loved them, and Whirl loved watching them in free-fall. “Yeah. Thanks. It was the plan, you know, to run one with Blurr. Run a bar, I mean.” The sound of his voice was painful to hear, the strained chipper and faltering carelessness. “When we get home, back to Cybertron, he’s gonna call me. We’ll have a joint fifty times better than this.”

Megatron squinted at him for a moment. “Tell me more.”

“You. . . you want me to ruin your drink?”

“My glass is empty, but even if it weren’t, you would not be ruining anything.”

Why? Why was he so charming just asking Swerve to talk? Or maybe he was only imagining the small grin, the splayed servos and tilted helm. Swerve tried to hide his panic by making two more drinks, a spritzer on rocks for him and a refill for Megatron. For once, he didn’t know what to talk about. This was different, with someone listening,  _ actively  _ listening, and he didn’t want to go through the same three things he always talked about. The bar, Blurr, and the bar. 

Ever intuitive, Megatron said, “If you would rather I leav—”

“No!” Swerve startled himself with the burst. He rubbed the back of his neck and added, “I can talk. I can talk for hours, but you really want to listen? I mean, no one ever asks me to talk. And it’s  _ you _ .” He waved his servos out in front of him at the glower he got. “That’s not a bad thing! It’s good, really. I just don’t know what to say. I mean, I have options, but I doubt you want a history of the engex you’re drinking or a recount of how many times I’ve seen Blurr in person.”

Megatron smiled.  _ Smiled _ . 

Swerve thought his spark would explode. “I know, it’s sad,” he said with a half-depreciating smile. “But come on, who put you up to this? I hope you get a good handful of shanix for it. Whirl got five last time he listened to me. Well, he didn’t really listen, and he didn’t last as long as you either.”

“I would hope not,” Megatron said, and maybe it was just in Swerve’s head, but there was a suggestive tint to his answer. The possibility made him shiver. 

“Right,” he choked out. Drinks finished, he slid one to Megatron and took a long swig from his. Felt good. “So, what do you want? Like,  _ really  _ want.”

Megatron thought for a moment, and damn was he gorgeous like that, pensive and quiet, chin in his servo, arms propped on the bar. Swerve didn’t realize he was leaning forward until he almost knocked his glass over and reeled back. Reflexes as fast as ever, Megatron snagged the glass before it could topple and righted it on the bar. 

“Sorry,” Swerve muttered. He grabbed a rag, noticing that a bit of engex had spilled on the other’s hand. Without thinking, he reached out and started wiping Megatron’s servo off as if he was nothing more than an extension of the bar. Only when the wannabe poet made to pull away did Swerve realize what he did. 

“I could have cleaned it myself,” Megatron rumbled. Surprisingly, he didn’t make a b-line for the door. 

Swerve downed his mixer and set the empty glass aside. He bit his lip and nodded. Was he that desperate for physical intimacy that he would stoop as low as cleaning someone? Or could he pass it off as part of his job, making sure any spills are taken care of?

In the background, the speakers started humming an acoustic rendition of “Creep” and Megatron snorted. 

“Not a fan?” Swerve was ready to bolt half way across the bar to change the song. He leaned against the bar, trying to ignore the words. Slag, if that wasn’t how he felt. . . Or maybe it wasn’t and he was just losing himself to the song, absorbing everything the authors had dumped into the lyrics. 

Megatron cast a sideways glance to the jukebox. “I’ve heard it before,” he said, distant. He took a healthy draw from his refill and grinned. “Haven’t appreciated it until now.”

Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Swerve, having nothing else to do behind the bar, leaned against it now. “Humans know their art, that’s for sure,” he said. “No matter what you think about organics. . . Just ask Nautica. She’s crazy for anything human.”

“And you aren’t?” Megatron’s lips twitched with the hint of a smile. It was intoxicating. 

“Well, I mean— I like music, they make music. It just works out.” He could berate himself for sounding like an idiot later, he thought. But for now, Swerve wanted to take the most from this rare moment, when he could talk and be heard.

Megatron chuckled, the sound a soothing roll of vocals. “It just works out.” He hummed. 

“It’s not complicated, is what I mean.” Swerve propped his elbows on the bar, distinctly aware that his face was barely a foot away from Megatron’s. He imagined the reflection of red optics in his visor and a small shiver flit through him. “Music is music, art is art, you know? You should know, with your poetry and all.”

Megatron glanced away and ran the tips of his digits around the lip of his glass. 

“What? Am I wrong?” Swerve tilted his helm. “Like a drink is a drink,” he explained. Not that the concept really needed it, but silence was setting in and it was only a matter of time before the moment, and Megatron, were lost and he was left alone. “No matter who’s drinking it, a drink is just whatever’s in it. Some magnesium, a bit of mercury, maybe some bromine if you’re feeling adventurous. It’s not a bad thing, I think. I mean, I serve drinks all day long. The orders change from bot to bot, but that doesn’t affect how I approach it.” He paused, trying to gauge Megatron’s expression. 

The mech just sipped his drink. After a little bit, he said, “That’s good to know.”

“Yeah.”

“Swerve?”

“Hm?”

Megatron shifted in his seat. “Do you take the same approach to mechs?”

“Well, no. You can’t really.” Swerve wondered where the question came from, but he deliberately avoided imagining any reason that had to do with him. “Mechs come with their own personalities, and they’re all unique, you know. I mean, of course you know. But. . .”

“But mechs aren’t drinks, or poetry,” Megatron finished. 

“I dunno. Some bots seem like art, don’t they?”

“Certainly.” The silver mech gave him a fond and pointed look.

Swerve almost collapsed. Or exploded, combusted; something violent and loud. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Come on, you’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking. Have you  _ seen  _ me?”

Megatron nodded serenely. “Of course I have. I see you, endlessly loyal, running yourself into the ground trying to please people who don’t pay you any attention.”

“Ouch,” Swerve muttered, though there was no denying it. 

“And I see you, always willing to serve, always willing to sacrifice yourself for every last one of those mechs. Even the ones who hate you.” Megatron frowned. “And I know that you’re lonely. But that isn’t the point.”

Anxiety blossoming, Swerve snapped, “Then what is? If you aren’t sitting there and insulting me, what  _ are  _ you doing?” He was tired of the games, tired of everything. He thought this would be nice, just him and Megatron having quality time. . . 

“I see you,” Megatron rumbled, “but I want more than that.”

Swerve stared for at least three minutes, processor reeling. White noise filled his mind and it was all he could do to acknowledge that he wasn’t dreaming. At least. . . he pinched himself. . . no, not dreaming. 

“If you allow me,” Megatron whispered. 

He cleared his throat and reset his vocalizer, but still, his voice came out a squeak when he finally spoke. “How  _ much  _ more?” He leaned forward the last few inches and hovered there, so close he could feel Megatron’s exvents on his cheek, and paused. “Like this?” Energon rushed to his head and he knew damn well his visor was brighter than usual, and he almost choked on his false confidence. 

Megatron hunched a bit and closed the gap between their lips. Megatron was sweet from the drink, left over magnesium tingling on Swerve’s glossa, and he smiled like a fool. No way in hell this was actually happening, but that didn’t mean he was about to stop it. How long had he cowered behind his bar, daydreaming of this, this warmth. It spread from their joined lips to the tips of his digits and the heels of his pedes. 

They parted only to stare at each other, half in awe and half in terror. Did they really just. . .

“Perhaps I should be more formal,” Megatron started. “Swerve, will you allow me to court you?”

Swerve leaned as far as he could across the bar and snagged another kiss, shorter but just as sweet. “How ‘bouts we have a mutual courtship.” He couldn’t describe the feeling of closeness overwhelming him. “The formal stuff is fine, but if you want a placant little mate—” His glossa caught in his throat at the slip. “W-well that’s not me.”

Megatron smiled again, the gleam of dentae just barely peeking through scarred lips. “I wouldn’t wish for it any other way,” he admitted. He glanced around the bar, then back to Swerve. “If you want to drop some of the formalities. . .”

Was he always so eloquently spoken? Swerve was so lost in the soft timber of the other’s voice that it took him a minute to realize what was being offered. He’d been out of the game way too long. 

He tried to hide some of his excitement, but his lopsided grin probably gave him away. “Are you sure? With me? I mean, come on.”

“Even if it means I need to affirm my desires every five minutes, yes Swerve.” Megatron exvented calmly. “You will have to be. . . patient with me, through all of this, though. I am not exactly familiar with courting.”

Swerve’s dumb grin spread. He propped his chin in his servos as he leaned over the bar. “Don’t worry about it. I know all there is to know an—”

Megatron shot him a dubious look.

“Okay, maybe not everything,” the minibot admitted, “but enough. Tradition tends to fly over my head, and I mean I talk more than I think, but you already know that. You’d have to. Even if you didn’t a couple hours ago, you sure as shit know now since I haven’t shut up.” He chuckled dryly. “I don’t know which of us is going to need more patience.”


	2. Sticky pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is getting longer and longer, another smutty chapter coming eventually! I swear! 
> 
> Enjoy, lovelies ;)

Megatron rolled his shoulders and stretched, a beautiful sight of well-worn armor and red detailing along his gorgeously taut abdomen. Swerve shivered, imagining worshipping every plane his optics raked over. 

“Come here,” Megatron rumbled. 

The command set a zing right down Swerve’s spine and he scrambled over the bar. Megatron gave him a bemused look then gathered his face in his servos and kissed him like the world was about to end. It was fierce and consuming, and Swerve drank it all in, the wriggle of his larger partner’s glossa in his mouth, his dentae scraping against his bottom lip. Swerve was convinced he was making out with Primus himself; it was just so good, too, too good. 

His panels opened without his command. 

His visor flashed franticly and he tried to free himself from Megatron’s lips, and cover his private bits, but the larger mech did not stop kissing. Nor did he let Swerve. One massive servo slipped down his spine and the other came to rest on his quivering thigh, both steadying him. He keened against Megatron’s broad chest when he brushed a servo over his spike. Swerve wrapped his arms around Megatron’s neck and kissed as passionately as ever when that damned servo started to tug and twist. When Swerve started to pant, Megatron moved from his lips to his neck, kissing relentlessly. It felt like an electrical storm coursing through his veins. 

“Slag, Megs—” Swerve groaned when that lovely servo left his spike. 

Megatron chuckled against his neck. “Yes?”

Swerve blinked and blinked again, still trying to settle with the fact that this was real. This was actually happening. He grinned, unbothered by formality (which he was pretty sure didn’t matter right now anyway) and slid himself into Megatron’s lap. “This okay?” he asked.

The ex-tyrant nodded slowly. 

“Good.” Swerve balanced himself carefully and straddled the other’s thighs. It was a stretch, but the burn in his thighs was refreshing. “I know I’m small,” he started, “but whatever you want to do, I’m game.”

Giant silver servos found the inseams in his hips and plucked the sensitive wiring. “Anything?”

“Anything. Well, not  _ anything  _ anything, but I’m open-minded.” He traced a digit along the detailing on Megatron’s chassis. “I just can’t believe this is—”

Megatron caught his chin in one servo and tilted it so he had to meet his gaze. “Believe it. And,” in a softer note, “let’s make this moment unforgettable.”

“Oh, there’s no way in the Pits I’m going to forget this, or you. Not ever.” He tapped the side of his helm. “Stored in my memory treasure chest.”

“Am I a treasure?” Megatron rumbled. A servo returned to Swerve’s spike. 

Swerve thrust into the touch as much as he could and gasped, “O-of course!” He fumbled for the other’s closed panels. “But not in like, a weird materialistic way. It’s not demeaning; least I hope it isn’t. Especially not to you. . .” his voice faded when Megatron released the latch to his array. 

Megatron tilted his hips on the barstool and spread his legs wider. “Something wrong?” he asked. He fondly stroked the side of Swerve’s shaking helm. “Good. I hope. . .” he broke off into a strangled gasp when Swerve rubbed his thumb over his grey exterior node. 

“You know,” Swerve said while he situated himself to get better access to the blushing, red bio-lit valve, “you’re so gorgeous. I know that’s kind of weird to hear, but it’s true. Least, I think it is.” He carefully parted the swollen folds and teased the slick entrance with his knuckle. 

Megatron sighed from the sweet touches. “I have been called many things,” he said, “but gorgeous is not one of them.”

“Well it should be.” Swerve parted his lips and leaned forward, and Megatron gladly filled the space with his own lips. When they parted (to Swerve’s chagrin), Megatron boldly licked along the curve of his jaw. “O-oh,” he gasped. “You’re so gorgeous, so soft and open and warm and—”

Megatron chuckled against his neck. 

“Sorry,” Swerve muttered.

“Do not apologize. I enjoy your voice.”

“The constant prattle?” He idly shifted his knuckle against Megatron’s valve. Small globs of transfluid seeped from between the old poet’s lips and dribbled down the curve of his aft and onto the stool. Swerve couldn’t care less. Hell, he’d probably save that chair, never wash it, but frame it. Display it in his room. 

Megatron hummed and reached between them to guide Swerve’s servo to his spike housing. “I don’t hear prattle.” His spike was hidden in the sheath of its silvery housing but he kissed Swerve’s shoulder, reassuring. “I hear songbirds.”

“Do I win something if I call your bluff?”

Megatron shook his helm. “No bluff.” He stroked Swerve’s spike, smiling fondly, and sighed. “May I request. . .”

Swerve captured him in another searing, desperate, jaw-locking kiss. “Request your spark out, I’m not about to stop you.” His engine purred when he was rewarded with a squeeze on his spike. “Come on, what do you want? I’m all ears, big guy.”

“Have you ever docked?” He whispered the question right into Swerve’s audial, and slag if that didn’t have his spike twitching.

“N-no,” he gasped, realizing why Megatron’s remained in its sheath. “You want me to— but—”

“If you are uncomfortable with the prospect,” Megatron rumbled, “I have other ideas.”

Swerve scrambled back into his partner’s lap. “You really think I’m going to pass this up?” He feverently praised Megatron’s perspiring chassis. “I’d love to,” he added in a whisper.

They shifted on the stool so Megatron leaned back against the bar, arms bent and bracing himself while Swerve tried to find the best angle. Finally, they settled, quivering in something akin to anticipation, quiet but for Swerve’s muttering and the roar of their cooling fans. 

“So. . .” Swerve peered up into Megatron’s half-lidded optics. “What do I— How should I start?”

“As you would a valve.”

He nodded judiciously. “Got it.” 

Sweeping two digits through the mess of Megatron’s valve, he collected a healthy helping of lubricants and spread them over his spike. Megatron licked his lips, unaware of the hungry look he was fixing Swerve with, let alone the effects of it. Swerve swore he’d overload on the spot if Megatron commanded him to, or even winked at him. Shivering and throbbing, Swerve gingerly pressed the tips of his coated digits against the mouth of the other’s spike housing. The sensitive mesh rippled and Megatron let loose a quiet groan. 

“Slag,” Swerve gushed, “you hear yourself? I’m barely touching you but you’re making those amazing noises and frag, I need to hear more. I want to make you moan and gasp and. . .” His voice faded off when he rested the tip of his chubby spike against Megatron’s much larger sheath opening. He imagined the spike inside and wondered what would happen if it extended. Would he be flung backwards from the force of the thing?

“Swerve,” Megatron moaned. “Slowly, please.”

He shot the other a smile of mock confidence and an awkward thumbs up. “Sure thing, boss.” He didn’t notice the frown that got him, he was too lost in carefully working the head of his red and white spike into Megatron. With a slick pop and a chorus of strangled sounds, he was in. Swerve stilled, fighting the desperate urge to pound into the quivering, hissing mech beneath him. “A-are you okay?” he managed. “It’s so tight, so good. Frag, Megatron. This is odd, g-good, but—”

“I know,” Megatron rumbled. “It is good. Feels so. . . mph. Move.” His servos were all over him, stroking his sides and hips, drawing charge from the seams. 

It was slow going; even with their size difference, Megatron’s chanel was so damn tight and he seized up every few seconds, forcing Swerve to pause. To encourage him, Swerve rubbed gentle circles around his swollen exterior node. 

“Is this good?” he asked, slowly forcing his spike deeper. Charge coiled in his spine like electric eels and he reveled in the burn of it. When he bumped into something  _ inside  _ the spike sheath, he jolted and the sudden movement wrenched a cry from Megatron. “Oh shit, shit, shit! Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He made to pull out, but the grip on his spike was so damn tight he only managed to lodge himself deeper. “Megatron?”

The giant mech’s optics were closed and his mouth gaping. His servos had since clamped down on Swerve’s hips, leaving dents. “I-I am—”

There was no warning when the sheathed spike released transfluid at such an alarming rate that it forced itself into Swerve’s transfluid chanel and he, too, was overloading as he was pushed from Megatron’s sheath. Megatron’s spike sprung free and continued jetting transfluid over them both. Swerve, still in the throws of his own overload, closed his mouth around the tip of that pulsing, commanding spike, and swallowed as much transfluid as he could before he pulled away, coughing.

Megatron sagged against the bar, helm thrown back, neck exposed, chest heaving, and Swerve took the opportunity to lavish him with sloppy kisses. He nibbled along the edge of reinforced chest plating and ran his glossa over the grooves of his waist. The transfluid didn’t bother him, in fact he was more than happy to clean it off his mate, swirling the taste of their combined fluids on his glossa. It sent a zing right to his urgently repressurizing spike. 


	3. Filling You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so Megatron may or may not have turned out a little more ooc than I wanted, but. . . he horny old man.

For a while, they stayed like that, Megatron humming his pleasure and Swerve whispering praises between kisses. He just couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Wouldn’t. Even when Megatron started to reciprocate again, he couldn’t shut Swerve up. Lips barely parted, he panted how beautiful he was, how patient and magnificent. The words left Megatron’s engine purring, and he tilted his helm back again. Swerve was all too eager to lap at the sinewy cables and energon lines there. 

“Ah,” Megatron gasped. A digit circled the rim of his valve, teasing. “Please.”

Swerve nodded fervently. “Anything. I’ll give you anything,” he rasped. 

The teasing digit slipped past his first ring of nodes and Megatron clenched around it, valve hungry for more. Swerve quickly worked up to three digits, scissoring and curling, dragging the blunt tips along sensitive lining. Megatron shivered under him and canted his hips into his touch, groaning his name. Swerve palmed the head of the other’s spike and watched eagerly for the moment overload wracked his frame. It didn’t come. 

Megatron grit his dentae. “Stop,” he hissed. 

Swerve obeyed, but idly stroked the daunting spike before him. “Something wrong? Am I not moving enough? I can move more or—”

He was cut off with a greedy, nipping kiss. Megatron pulled back just enough to rumble, “I want to overload -ah- around you.”

“You  _ are  _ around me,” Swerve said. And then it clicked. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah, we can do that. If you want.” He carefully removed his digits from Megatron’s weeping and swollen valve. “Are you sure I can. . . I mean, you see what you’re getting.” He motioned to his exposed spike and glared at it for a second himself. It was days like these when Swerve wished he had a bigger spike. Well, he usually wished that. 

Megatron gave an appreciative tug to said spike and another heady kiss on his neck. “I want to have you,” he whispered. “I want  _ you  _ to have  _ me _ .”

Swerve needed no further convincing. It wasn’t like he was complaining, he just wanted to make sure Megatron knew he wasn’t hiding any tricks up his sleeves. No mods, nothing impressive. Wide for his frame, sure, but short and chubby wasn’t the best combo deal when it came to spiking a mech triple his size. Megatron swirled his hips and spread his legs enticingly. Swerve’s visor flashed at the sight, transfluid and lubricant staining his massive thighs, condensation flecking his chassis. He could spend the rest of his life licking Megatron clean. Drop the bar, drop everything for him. 

“If you don’t mind,” Megatron started, “I would like to readjust.”

They were in an odd position for spiking, so Swerve hummed his consent. “Go for it. Whatever makes you comfy.” 

While Megatron moved, turning around so he was half-bent over the bar, Swerve refused to keep his hands to himself. Glistening thighs and toned hips were just too perfect to let go. Once the two were situated, Swerve was sitting on the bar stool, and Megatron’s aft hovered tantalizingly over his spike. The old poet braced himself on the bar and kept his legs bent and braced on either side of the stool. 

He twisted to smile at Swerve who was eagerly palming the stretched and dripping valve above him. “Comfortable?” he asked.

“Hell yeah,” Swerve gushed. “We could be fragging on a bed of nails and I’d still be comfortable. With you, like this, how could I not be?” He tugged on Megatron’s hips and thrust just enough to brush the tip of his spike through his sensitive folds. “I’m ready when you are,” he gasped.

Megatron hummed and rocked back, lowering himself slower than necessary. He was plenty stretched and wet and Swerve’s spike didn’t meet any resistance as he slid in. Nonetheless, Megatron groaned when his aft met Swerve’s hips. They stilled for a moment and Swerve kissed sloppy lines up the curve of Megatron’s spine. He was blubbering praises, barely holding still when his spike was clasped in the undulating waves of Megatron’s overload. Although it was a smaller one than when they’d docked, it left Megatron’s arms shaking on the bar, and his fans picked up a notch, desperately trying to dispel excess heat from his frame. 

“Swerve,” he moaned. “Light your fire in my —ah— my soul. Help me forget everything but you.”

Swerve traced circles Megatron’s aft. “Was that poetry?”

“Yes. I. . .”

“Did you just come up with that?” Swerve thrust up as much as he could, pinned beneath the other’s weight. Fierce passion and heat coiled in his tanks. No one ever talked like that around him. It made his digits tingle and his spike twitch. What was this?

Megatron hissed and bowed his helm against the bar. “Yes,” he moaned. He rose off his spike and eased himself back down. His valve clenched wildly, sensitive and smoldering. 

“I like it.”

“Thank you,” Megatron gasped. He braced more of his body weight on the bar and rocked experimentally on Swerve’s spike. The stool under them creaked, but didn’t crumble. 

Swerve cried obscenities as Megatron took control and bounced feverently. He met each drop with a thrust of his own, reveling in the lewd noises of their joining and the fluids coloring their thighs. Megatron threw his helm back and Swerve kissed everything he could reach. His spike felt like it was on fire, burning in the passion that Megatron was so desperately trying to show him, throbbing in his somehow still-tight valve and scraping against nerve-laden mesh walls. 

It was all so much, and so good, and Megatron was biting his lip but couldn’t hide the moans and high pitched pleas for more. Swerve thrust as hard as he could, proud that every small movement drew a new noise from his much larger partner. Although he wasn’t big enough to hit Megatron’s ceiling node or any of the deeper clusters of nodes, he was wide enough that the base of his spike but constant pressure on the first ring of hyper-sensitive nodes. And it was one of the most rewarding experiences in the world to watch Megatron come undone from his chubby little spike. Megatron, of all mechs. Megatron, who was groaning his name and leaving paint transfers on his hips.

Swerve snaked his arms around Megatron’s waist and clutched him tight, too overwhelmed to do much else. His hips stuttered and Megatron slammed down one last time. They cried out in unison and Swerve buried his face in his back as he sobbed his name. As loud as he was, he could still hear Megatron shout his name too. His valve clenched and fluttered through their overloads, drawing more and more transfluid from Swerve’s near-empty reserves. They panted and sagged against each other, not needing much else. 

Even after they both finished, neither wanted to move. So they didn’t. They remained connected, meshing into one, gasping for cool air and waiting for their systems to recover. Swerve hummed something inaudible into Megatron’s spine.

“Mmm?” he asked.

Swerve lifted his helm and pressed his cheek to the warm, heaving metal beneath him. “I’m pretty sure I just had an out-of-body experience,” he whispered. Megatron laughed, quiet and warm, and it made Swerve’s spark ache. Not with longing, but something akin to fulfillment. “I blame you,” he added, teasing. 

“Me?” The lethargic slur to Megatron’s voice was absolutely intoxicating. Swerve imagined waking up and hearing that same voice every morning. “I am innocent.”

“Try that again when you aren’t still sitting on my spike,” Swerve said. Neither moved. “You should keep writing.”

Megatron looked over his shoulder, optics half-lidded. “I never stopped,” he rumbled.

“Well, I want to hear more.”

“And I want to hear more of your stories.” He smiled, offering a glimpse of his dentae. “I see you, Swerve.”

Swerve beamed back. “I see you too, Megatron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤💦❤


End file.
